#also this is a free idea

[fictionplumis]

Okay okay okay I got another one for Sorcery!

Flanker ends up with the Crown of Kings.

Bear with me. We all know he would dash that thing on the ground and destroy it after it was used on him to make him nearly kill the person he loves, but here's the thing.

The Analander hands it to him with such a trusting, earnest look and tells him, "You won't take away power from the people and you can fix this world. I know you can." And even though almost every part of him balks at the idea of ruling, Flanker has experienced how broken the world is, how none that are currently in power will do anything to fix it with or without the crown, and it makes a weird kind of sense for someone so reluctant for power to be the one holding it, the one wielding it.

And it's so hard to say no to the Analanader when they look at him like he personally hung the stars that sorcerers draw their power from.

So he takes it.

He tries not to use it. It's a cursed thing, and Flanker doesn't wish to control the people around him, least of all the Analander, but it's not an easy thing to do. It's not the temptation of it, it's not that he feels he needs to, it's that in his memories of the Archmage using it on him, the crown had been nowhere in the room. The Analander swears it had been on the Archmage's head, they just couldn't see it because the Archmage hadn't wanted them to, but it's hard for him not to question it.

Especially when he wears it and doesn't need to consciously give an order. Those that don't know about the crown well enough to fight the influence, or who trust him the most, seem to react to his subconscious will even before he says anything. Those things unsettle him the most, especially when it happens with the Analander. One stray thought of desire or pang of want while he has the crown on and the Analander is in the room, and they're at his side, arms around him, pressing a kiss to his temple or what have you. Afterwards, with the crown well away from the both of them, they swear they don't mind, that they want those things too, but it still doesn't sit right with him.

As far as actually being a ruler goes, Flanker hates attention, so you know he's not going to be going out there and greeting the people and announcing himself as the new monarch of Mampang or whatever. He's a shadowy ruler, and there's just as many rumors about him being dead as there were about the Archmage. But--

Things start changing. Slowly, at first.

Despite his discomfort with magic and his lack of knowledge, the changes start with the College of Sorcerers. The Analander suggests that he release Valiquesh from the book she was trapped in and together with Aliizi (who was wary of him at first but started coming around, either unconsciously because of the crown or because she genuinely realized he wasn't going to purposely control her, it's impossible to say), they reestablish the College.

And the second Flanker finds out an acquaintance of the Analander's is locked up, he goes and frees Jann. The minimite, despite being an irritating headache, is something of a relief. The crown's power doesn't work while he's around and Flanker can always trust that the little pest will say exactly what he wants whether Flanker likes it or not.

It's even more reassuring that Jann first spent most of his time riding around on the Analander's shoulder since his wings were clipped, but the Analander eventually got frustrated at having their magic cut off and resolved to solve the problem, which came one day they were at the market and found a man selling a caged crow. They used their magic to speak to the bird, offering it job to be paid in food, safety, and some of its freedom back.

Flanker was sure the damn bird was going to eventually get irritated with the annoying minimite and eat it, but couldn't have been more wrong. More often than not, Jann ended up sleeping nested with the bird. The Analander, amused beyond belief at Flanker's annoyance, explained that the bird liked being talked to, but crucially, couldn't actually understand a word Jann said. Plus, Jann liked to give the bird scritches. The minimite treated the crow like one would a prized and beloved family horse.

It took a few months for the real work to actually start. The College was operating again, but without students, it was useless. And in order for there to be students, the gates of Mampang needed to be open to travelers. And in order for that to happen, people needed to be able to cross the Baklands safely. Flanker kept trying to put off actually exerting his influence on the people but Valiquesh was impatient and once the Analander and Jann pointed out how often he was using the crown to silence Valiquesh and keep her from calling him a coward, he finally decided to actually act.

Flanker's not a monarch, though. He knows nothing about actually ruling, so his first order was to establish a council and gather the other rulers of the land to talk to them.

He did not fret about the meeting in the weeks leading up to it.

He did not.

(He paced a lot. The Analander laughed kindly at his nervousness and assured him it would be fine. That didn't stop his pacing.)

They met in the study, which had been cleared of all the Archmage's things and was mostly used by Valiquesh and the Analander, because Flanker himself preferred their private quarters, which had been Jann's old jail cell, cleared and reconstructed with a fireplace, a cozy sleeping area, and a small sitting arrangement right in front of the fire. But for this, Flanker met them in the study, all but Jann in attendance, Aliizi watching the proceedings in invisibility, and Flanker dressed in his assassin's garb as usual, resolutely showing no signs of his nervousness.

That grew easier the more he asked each ruler how they made their kingdom prosperous and how they would have used the crown to benefit their people. With each answer, he grew increasingly irritated, finally understanding just why the Analander gave the crown to him instead of destroying it or giving it back to his king.

The only one of them that had wanted to implement any real change was Vik, who was distasteful at best, but at least had been put into power by the people of Khare and who was (somewhat) giving that power back to the people. But his change was only for Khare, while the other rulers just wanted their kingdoms to stay the same while abandoning Khakabad and the Baklands to suffer in poverty, ruin, and curses.

That was the moment Flanker started using the crown seriously.

The king of Analand was ordered to open his gates to Khakabad and send out sorcerers, farmers, and supplies to the neighboring towns. Khakabad would be part of his kingdom now, and he was to share Analand's prosperity and teach the people of Khakabad how to prosper themselves. They were now his responsibility.

Vik was ordered to stop enslaving people and forcing them into being his own private army of werewolves. Most of the damage was already done, but he was told to take the armor off the werewolves he did have, explain to them that they were now werewolves, and instead ask them to become part of his guard. It was now a job, like anything else was, and those that wanted to work for him would be paid well and for the rest of their lives, even after they could no longer work, considering they would forever live with the consequences of lycantropy. They were to have shifts with overseers to remove their armor at the end of the shifts so they could go home and have lives. Barracks were to be built for those that weren't on shift or those that no longer worked so they had somewhere safe to go during a full moon where they couldn't hurt anyone.

The other rulers were ordered to send contractors and sorcerers into the Baklands to dismantle the Archmage's beacons. This was something that Flanker put a lot of thought into outside the meetings, talking with the Analander, Aliizi, Valiquesh, and Jann about it. After lengthy, heavy discussions, they all agreed that it wasn't fair to keep those ghost towns alive, the people in them never knowing that they had died ages ago, never able to leave, their lives forever looping. It was best to leave the past in the past, and instead look towards what the Baklands could become in the future.

One night, years later, once all of Flanker's plans were well on their way to being completed and the gates to Mampang were open again, the College of Sorcerers seeing their first year of recruits under Valiquesh's teachings, Flanker sat on the distastefully extravagant chaise with the Analander's head in his lap while they dozed, turning the crown in his hand over and over again while staring at the fire.

Truly, for such a powerful item, it was a poorly made thing. Threadbare, the jewels chipped, the metal thin and bones crooked.

The Analander roused, half-asleep, meeting Flanker's gaze sleepily and it was as if he knew. A subtle nod of understanding was all Flanker needed to throw the cursed crown into the fire, the skullcap catching immediately and the fire warping the metal. By morning, all that would be left would be a puddle of metal and blacked gems.

"You always destroy it," the Analander murmurs, turning their face back into Flanker's stomach with a yawn, their eyes closing. "Sometimes right away, sometimes later, when you feel like the work is done. The land always fairs better when it's later."

"You are not awake," Flanker replies, because the words don't make sense. He ignores the twist of discomfort, resolves himself to ask the Analander about it later, and instead bullies them up so he could take them to bed, shedding clothes along the way.

It would be days later when he manages to corner the Analander in the library that he asks about it and gets the full story.

I'm cursed.

When I die, I return to Mampang on the day we defeated the Archmage. I can show you the very alley I return to.

I do it all over again. I've done it hundreds of times. I've gotten good at it, too. Once I figured out how to break you out of the Archmage's control, I've never once had to fight you again.

No, you didn't kill me that first time. But killing you killed me. I couldn't do it without you, and I was relieved when I died to the Archmage and had another chance to save you. I have every time since, and even though things change in the strangest ways, every time I tell you that I love you, your blade finds its home in the Archmage instead of my throat. You're strong enough to break out of the compulsion every single time.

You don't need to worry, Flanker. I know how to lift the curse. There's a tower in the College of Sorcery where I can undo it. I choose not to, not yet. At first I just wanted to see what decisions would be best for us and people of this land.

I've given the crown to my king, and things weren't bad. He kept it for two more years and passed it on to the next kingdom. Analand prospered and everyone knew who I was, who we were. But you hated the attention and I grew tired of it. We started a life for ourselves in the Shamutanti hills, an hour outside of Khare. You continued work for your guild after growing restless, I studied my magic, and we were happy. But in the quiet moments both of us agreed that it felt like something was missing. It was disquieting to both of us that nothing had really changed. It was the same every time I gave my king the crown, the only thing that differed was how I died. Sometimes one of us would get sick, or you wouldn't come back from Khare and I would have to track down someone from your guild to find out you had died, or I would go into town for supplies and get caught off guard by bandits...

I thought if I destroyed the crown, something different would happen, so I tried that a handful of times, but it was almost exactly the same. Analand would be in turmoil for a year or so before settling down, and we would live happily if unsettled over how little change our sacrifices and hardship actually made.

Then I thought to release Valiquesh. She made significant process back when she was the archmage. Every time she would destroy the crown, we would go on to live our lives in peace. She would establish the College again and work on revitalizing the land that the other monarchs left to ruin. It was better.

Once, I thought to stay in Mampang with her to study under her. But when I did that, you left, feeling you had no place in that world, and I lasted a couple years before I fell on my sword to see you again. Valiquesh was an unrelenting teacher and I learned a lot, but the progress I could have continued making wasn't worth being without joy. Being without you.

I thought to keep the crown for awhile, thinking I could make more change if I took matters into my own hand. You were always there with me, my general. But every time I did that, Aliizi would leave and Jann would want nothing to do with me. But you were there, and I made progress.

Sort of.

I never handled it with as much grace as you, Flanker. No, don't give me that look, I'm serious! After living so many lives and dying so many times, I was frustrated, and angry, and I always let it get the best of me. More and more each time. I never managed to make as much progress as I wanted, so each time I would take more and more control, until I realized I was becoming no better than the Archmage.

Thank you for saying that, but you never thought so in those lives, if I put the crown away. You were the one that told me I was like him, and you were right to say so in those lives. They still haunt me.

Whenever I gave you the crown and you kept it, everyone was better for it. You never relish the power, you never cling to it, and you push for the other monarchs to make the changes that they never would have made on their own. And once you feel you've done enough, you destroy the crown.

Now I don't bother to try other options. I've found the best one, and I repeat this life because I'm never ready to leave you. I want to keep doing this over and over, with you.

Flanker has no perception of these other lives that the Analander lived with him, has no idea how many the Analander went through, whether it was still that same life for them as it was for Flanker when, years later as they're sitting on the roof of the garret, watching the sun set, the Analander takes his hand and kisses the back of it, murmuring, "I think I'm ready for this to be our last time."

Even though it was always Flanker's "last time" he can't help but feel his heart squeeze with sorrow but he tightens his hand on the Analander's and nods in understanding.

"We both deserve to rest, my dear Analander."

[enidtendo64]

TW: Heavily implied Child Abuse

Stowaway AU where Pacifica becomes a stowaway on the Stan-O-War 2 after trying to run away from home to California. Things don’t exactly work out as planned, but at least she’s got a “Summer Internship” away from her parents now!

[hinamie]

'what do u want to draw' 'idk, megumi?'

[wanderingibon]

" I noticed that you've been smiling more, Lucanis. "

" ...Have I? ...Si, I suppose I have been. "

[iero]

THE BREAKFAST CLUB (1985)

+ IMDb trivia | in/sp.

[inkskinned]

i'm a little afraid to go to pride this year. many of us are, a little. sitting around our tapas and video games, the silence that hangs over the discord server. it feels different, we say.

we're privileged. the community that came before us laid the groundwork so i could be raised in a different world, and i will never forget their sacrifices and dedication. they gave us this: a pride that feels like community and celebration and joy. i remember the first few times i went to a queer event - i'd been raised so catholic. feeling safe like that, for the first time... it saved my life. i go to pride to celebrate that feeling - my people, laughing. out in the sun, the way we couldn't have been even 25 years ago. that feeling: no wonder we call it "pride."

who am i to be afraid anyway. there are parts of the world where people are doing much better work than i am. but it's just: i felt at home there, you know? and this year feels different. we are waiting on the dam to break. last year, at boston pride, there was a whole gaggle of sign-holders shouting about jesus. you walk around them and try not to let it get to you.

this year, i'm going to DC's pride with my girlfriend. google sends me concerns about if it's safe to exist in trump's america, if World Pride is a bigass target on all of us. every article uses the words "safety concerns" many, many times. three days ago i witnessed a shooting.

even straight people keep telling me - people are weird lately. sometimes we blame it on Covid and sometimes we blame it on the full moon. but i do remember a time before this, right. it's not just that people are more comfortable being rude. it's this strange, outwards violence. a comfort in being cruel.

it's a big hole to fall down anyway. it's not like they're going to do anything to make pride safe, not really. i don't want a police presence as the solution. and what if this is just fearmongering! what if this is just to get us to stop attending our own events! what if everything is actually fine, and i'm just freaked out by the stated intentions of our president!

and what if i'm just listening to things that are being said. what if i'm weighing the shape and size of this america accurately.

my mother calls me. she's been getting the articles too. i assure her i'll be careful, but i put the phone down and stare at it. i'm going to go to pride. other people made it safe for me, it is my duty and my honor to show up for my community. the only thing we've ever had was each other. it was always an act of bravery. being ourselves is brave.

but i am afraid. i lay out my outfit and i kiss my girlfriend. i cut my nails and clean up my undercut. i hold her hand and hang the sunset flag. the sound of this america feels different. like a volcano trembling. i will love her and i will love being queer and i will sing over the noise of it.

but ... still. in the back of my mind. that feeling, like something terrible has been shifted. like somewhere in the night - they remembered we're different.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

I have a REQUEST of non dick Grayson fanfiction writers

If you’re writing a fic and you need a way to write Dick out a la ‘Cass was busy in Hong Kong’ PLEASE MAKE IT THE MOST NONSENSICAL thing I’ve ever read

I wanna see

“Dick was busy fighting the devil in hell… he said he was fine so we’re leaving him be”

“I called dick and he just said no? And hung up?? So I’m guessing he’s busy?”

“ Dick was kidnapped by a space monarch and the titans are trying to bargain for him back… he didn’t do anything wrong they just like him and his wanna keep him”

“He’s stuck in a barrel rn”

“Dick is trapped in a noir film”

“He’s busy at the MET”

“I would call Dick but I think he’s on a remote island battling deathstroke rn and I don’t wanna be involved in all that”

“I would call Dick but he’s in Amazon rainforest and they have bad signal”

Are you seeing the vision? Like I want SILVER AGE NONSENSE FOR MY BOY. Like bro is just chilling firmly OUTSIDE the story

Like Tim is doing his whole angst plotline and he tries to call dick and he gets “hey Timmy would love to stay and chat but I’m being chased by sentient cotton candy and I gotta find a water source love you ciao”

Jason needs Allies and he calls Dick and it’s like “hey sorry would love to help but I’m in an alien deathmatch for the crown of a nation and I’m being attacked by a meat cleaver thing? Bye don’t get blown up again! Love you”

Damian needs a place to chill after Bruce is an asshole “sorry kid would love to help but i am currently in the Gotham sewers being handfed cheesecake don’t ask it’s a long story I’ll tell you when you’re 18 bye”

Babs needs him for something “would love to help but I’m having a tea party with a being beyond comprehension and if I blink I’ll die so send me details and I’ll get back to you when slash if I’m alive in 5-6 business days.”

Bruce calls “I’m herding space cows rn is everyone alive? If not tell me now so I don’t have to find out from a newspaper? No everyone’s fine. Lovely. Delete this number”

[keylimeart]

if anidala has no defenders im dead

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ignorantia Neminem Excusat

(Ignorance excuses no one, lat.)

"Commissioner."

Jim Gordon doesn't jump. They are years and years into this rodeo, he's stopped actually jumping at Batman's silent approach a long time ago. Yet, Bruce still notices the way his shoulders twitch just the tiniest bit, and his hand makes an aborted motion to his gun holster. Still got it.

The man turns around. Bruce can see the 'must you always do that?' in his slightly narrowed eyes. He presses his lips tightly together in order to not smirk: Batman doesn't do that, even if it's admittedly funny to see the seasoned Commissioner get spooked every time.

"There's a kid that wants to speak with you."

Bruce frowns. A kid that warranted a BatSignal? Not that he minds, but this is highly unusual for several reasons; however, Jim is not the kind of man that would fall for puppy eyes of any level, so it must be something more important than an autograph session or a victim of any of the recent cases.

Besides, the way Commissioner worded it implies that the kid, whoever they are, requested Batman specifically.

"He is a hacker," Jim puts both his hands in the pockets of his coat — he is either cold or uncomfortable, and Bruce highly suspects it's both. What's more, he starts to understand why. "I'm sure you're aware we were trying to track the person responsible for the few recent cyber attacks on GCPD servers," Jim glances at him, and Bruce nods. He is aware, yes, but the case was low-priority — it wasn't even an attack, really, someone just accessed the system foregoing the passwords and clearance levels, went through a few files, seemingly at random, and did a fairly decent job of hiding their traces. Bruce would have even thought it was Tim, if this happened a few years ago, when the boy was just learning the ropes.

Commissioner sighs and looks away, "But when we brought him in, the boy said he will only speak to you, and none of us have been able to make him say a word since." He pauses, a grim kind of expression on his face, "This was six hours ago."

Bruce is grateful for the way his cowl hides how his eyebrows raise. There are hundreds of scripts officers, detectives, and social workers can use to establish contact. Quite a lot of them could be attempted in the span of six hours.

Whatever the kid wants to tell him, Bruce decides it's worth a try. If not anything else, he can at least admire the sheer stubbornness.

—×—×—×—

The kid sitting in the interrogation room looks... younger than Bruce expected. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He is dressed like any other homeless kid in Gotham — a hoodie and a jacket over it, jeans that look a size too big on him, sneakers with mismatched shoelaces — but he clearly hasn't been out in the streets for that long. His hair is braided into cornrows, and it looks professional, even if the roots have grown out so now it's just messy. What's more, he is missing that telltale wariness in his posture that Bruce has seen in every other street kid that has been brought into a police station. They always slouch and curl into themselves.

This boy is sitting with his back straight. Yet, there's a tension in his body that Bruce can only associate with a battle stance — give him the slightest reason, and the kid will lunge.

He steps into the room.

The boy — he hadn't given a name, and there wasn't a single ID on him — zeroes on him instantly. His eyes are a very pale, almost translucent green: a rather strange feature for a black-skinned person, genetically speaking, but Bruce doesn't dwell on it. Yet.

But then, the face recognition program comes up empty.

As in, 'there's not a trace of this person's prior existence' empty. Not a single camera footage, no records or reports of missing, no pictures, no social media, nothing. Bruce frowns.

"Hi," the kid says, his voice raspy, "My name is Tucker Foley. According to the government, I don't exist, so if your recognition program doesn't find anything on me, that's why."

Bruce doesn't say anything. Tucker wanted to speak with him, and previously, he was only merely intrigued by that request. However, as of right now, he wants to hear everything the kid has to say before asking any follow-up questions.

Because that always present, cautious and bordering on paranoid voice in the back of his mind tells him he is about to get into something way more serious than he expected.

Tucker moves — he kept both his hands on the table, palms open and visible, but now he closes one into a fist. Although, before Bruce can react to it, he opens it again. A small, the size of a flash-drive, dimly glowing green object rests inside.

"Do you know what this is?" The boy asks. He hasn't looked away from Batman's face once; Bruce is not even sure he blinked at all since he entered the room. Come to think of it, even with his tense, rigid posture, Tucker is too still, almost unnervingly so.

Bruce glances down to the boy's hand.

"Yes," he answers curtly, and there it is, the smallest shift in Tucker's face: he clenches his jaw like he's trying to hold the words inside his mouth. Bruce doesn't like it.

"What is it?" Comes the next question, but it's not curiosity that prompts it. It's a test of some sort. Bruce likes that even less.

"A power source," he decides on a neutral answer, not entirely certain what the boy is expecting to hear.

It seems to be a wrong answer because for the first time, Tucker's emotions slip from under his mask, and he takes a sharp breath in, looking like Bruce had just slapped him across the face. It lasts only a moment — Tucker closes his eyes for a moment, slowly exhales, and speaks again, calm and focused once more.

"And what exactly powers it?"

It's an important question, judging by the desperate, searching look in Tucker's eyes. His hands are not shaking, and there are no visible signs of distress, but for some reason, Bruce just knows that the boy's whole life seems to depend on the answer.

But.

"It's classified." Bruce doesn't take his eyes off the boy, but he still fails to see when he gets to his feet; the movement is quicker than the blink of an eye. All he knows is the aftermath of it, the screech of the chair legs on the floor and the loud slam of Tucker's palms on the table.

"Fuck the classified!" The boy yells, his face twisting in an awful mix of anger, hurt and a broken, terrified sort of hopelessness that almost breaks Bruce from the inside. "I need to know what they've told you, I have to- Tell me you think it's just a battery! Tell me you've never broke one to see what's inside, tell me you believe in science! They've showed you the research, didn't they?" Tucker's voice, so agonizingly different from the composed way he was talking before, breaks into a sobbing, almost hysterical laugh. His pale eyes are wide open and almost panicked, searching Batman's face for something he is not sure he can find.

"Tell me you've never seen one being made," this time, the boy doesn't yell, he whispers, his breath hitching and his knuckles white. "Please," he adds a moment later, and Bruce knows this kind of plea.

It's the plea of someone who is begging for the world to have mercy on them. A plea of a boy standing on their parents' grave, a plea of a man kneeled in front of his son's corpse.

Bruce swallows the bitter taste on the back of his tongue and takes a step closer. He sees the boy in front of him lean back and bend his knees, like bracing for impact, but he answers before any more misunderstandings can occur.

"I have seen the research. It provided enough information that I've never investigated further," he offers, and Tucker's shoulders slump like months and months of living in a constant state of fight-or-flight leaving his body all at once. Then, the boy's hands start trembling just slightly.

"Really?" He quietly asks, his eyes still glued to Batman, and there it is, the hesitant, uncertain hint of hope in his voice.

Bruce suddenly feels like not only this talk will be much, much worse than he ever feared, but also like in the end this will be another one of the things he will be blaming himself for. Things he could have prevented if he just tried a little harder.

"Really," he nods, taking a seat opposite from Tucker. "So explain what I've missed."

The boy keeps looking at him for a few more seconds, like trying to x-ray his thoughts for any sign of a lie. But then he blinks — for the first time, maybe — and rubs his face with his palm before all but dropping back in his own seat.

"Okay," he breathes out, evidently trying to collect himself and go back to the strong, focused self, "Okay."

[ part 2 -> ]

[antlersish]

Based on a suggestion from the last piece I drew! Free to use, same for my last piece!!

[lucabyte]

even dogs pass the mirror test

[brokenrefraction]

alright my dearest and humblest most sincere brother, imperator of this sleep-nurse tumblr dot come popolus. the time has come

it was either in two business days or the last ask you receive determines it

its the time. unearth to everyones eyes the body pillow of dr welcome smile corporation creation. i will await with open arms. god fucking damknit why does it have to be when i cant spa m relbog ts cus my phone is on charge

sigh. welp. you guys asked for it. I TOLD YALL ITS CRINGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IM NOT LYING WHEN I SAY ITS CRINGE fuck my stupid life

feel free to kill me now

i need my amisulpride

[confuzing]

Luo Binghe is waiting at the base of the mountain for the entry exam to start when he meets and befriends a rich noble boy who's also planning to enter.

His new friend A-Yuan insists that Binghe eat with him and stay with him at the inn and the boy's servants just kind of nod and go "of course young master."

And like, Luo Binghe might be biased, but A-Yuan is like... Really Pretty? He didn't know boys could be that pretty...

They even walk up the mountain together and settle in to dig their holes side by side.

Meanwhile Shen Qingqiu is pretending to pointedly ignore the other Peak Lords at the selection while instead eavesdropping so hard because apparently Liu Qingge's youngest brother is an applicant this year, but the brute isn't planning on picking him because "A-Yuan doesn't like fighting" he says, strangely fond. Shen Qingqiu was not aware Liu Qingge was capable of being fond of anything.

When Liu Qingge singles out Luo Binghe Shen Qingqiu jumps on it- and then the boy sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with the urchin looks up and my, isn't the family resemblance remarkable? The boy even has a beauty mark, though his is on his chin.

"That one too," he tells Ming Fan. He can feel Liu Qingge's eyes boring into his back as he approaches the two boys. He still gets the urge to dump his tea on Luo Binghe, but before he can Liu Yuan hugs the other boy and tells him "my mama is dead too." And that mollifies him. The boys are sent away dry.

Liu Qingge is furious and suspicious of course- that was the whole point. And Shen Qingqiu decides he'll just let the boy sink or swim on his own. No doubt the brute will be butting in to make sure his precious baby brother isn't mistreated.

Liu Yuan swims of course- that boy loves learning- and drags Binghe along in his protective wake. And maybe after his thirty-something stop in to check on A-Yuan Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu start like, maybe respecting each other a little bit more. They definitely don't like each other. No. Never.

Edit: More here

[mohntilyet]

caterina's datamined character description calling her korean-italian and early lucanis designs having him look east asian . i'll just do everything myself i guess

assorted thoughts: caterina is fully 'korean' or whatever the thedas equivalent would be in this design, and clawed her way to the top of the crow food chain after years of work. their armor is something caterina forcibly incorporated to distinguish house dellamorte from the other crows, and a symbol of their status because they get it custom made or imported. of course race-equivalents do not really exist in thedas or this world but i also will never forget how gaider just implied (east) asian people don't exist in thedas because it just so happens that there are no asians on the continent of thedas (guy who forgot about boats) . explode and die. there's not the same kind of discrimination as exists irl ofc (and the dellamortes are actually treated fine, much better than a mage or elf) but a level of xenophobia against foreigners from a different continent. illario looks the least like her, and passes for being fully antivan, which changes how he is recieved by the other crows.

and sorry if the korean is bad please actually let me know if it's horribly translated i relied on google translate . if you are one of ten asian dragon age fans feel free to talk to me at any given moment.

[feralpurple]

The Waves

He is such a silly little fanboy I love B-127!!! X3

[bravo666]

mdni • price x f!reader

captain price has a ritual and his men know better than to disturb. every time 141 gets back from an op and rumbles back to hereford, they unload, debrief, file the necessary reports and then some, all that dreary bureaucracy that needs to be done within the first couple hours of touching back onto english soil. and then, at the first opportunity, he fucks off. captain’s privilege, he says.

the others do too—on the town or to the bunks or to their own flats or wherever—but price never joins them. he has his own destination in mind and it’s a solo journey, so quit nosing about trying to find out, sergeant. he’s only ever gone for a few hours, six at the most, before he rolls on back to base, squares his shoulders, and throws himself back into work. at least he always seems a bit lighter when he comes back.

said destination is a pub not one, not two, but three villages over. the further from base, the less likely it is for him to run into one of his men, and he’d just hate it if that happened, would feel like a dog dragging mud in through the garden door, crossing his wires. he might not like it about himself, but john price is a greedy and selfish man, and the pretty little thing that’s been tending bar for the past few years is a morsel that he wants to keep all to himself, cradled in his jaw and savored.

the dingy pub is nondescript and uncreative, a local establishment that’s been around since anyone can remember and hadn’t changed a whit. price found the place back when he was first made captain and started looking for further out watering holes, looking for some peace and quiet away from the places where the recruits drank. he almost wrote the place off his lists of spots before he saw the flustered young bartender duck in for her shift.

since then, he’s been a regular—for a given value of ‘regular’, as much as a military man can be—ever since. started swapping conversation after the third or fourth visit. polite conversation turned friendly, then raucous with laughter, then warm and teasing.

that’s as far as he let’s it go, naturally. with a job like his, he’s married to his work; there’s no room, no time in his life for a sweet little wife, no matter what he dreams at night with his cock fisted in his grip or whose face he happens to see play the role. he tried the whole wife thing once, chased after it, even, and all price has to show for it is an alimony payment set to automatically go out every month.

(his ex-wife couldn’t handle him in the end. she was the type of woman who needed him at every hour to keep her love alive and couldn’t stomach the weeks alone while he was deployed, and even when price was home, she didn’t have an appetite to match his when he slipped himself off his leash. they both jumped into it without looking ahead. such is life.)

so he ignored the hungry need for a woman beside him, and even if he ever did go down that route again, it couldn’t be her. she’s young and bright and untouched by blood. playful flirting and occasional brushes of fingers hovered somewhere plausibly deniable as a service worker buttering up a favorite patron, or—and price only lets this thought loose for a moment before snatching it and shoving it down with a growl—a friend. he’s gone half the year anyway, or something like it. every time he comes, he carries the irrational, ugly fear that in she’s moved on, moved out, got a new job, left the country, got married—

when he shoulders through the door now, sawdust sticking to his boots, his girl’s—because that’s what she is, even if it’s only the sight of her that he lets himself claim and hoard—wiping down glasses behind the sill, the pub just about empty as all the old timers went home. his first thought is that she’s still there, thank god. his second’s that she’s changed up her hair. it looks good. price pointedly ignores the way the sight of her with her new hair and those pretty lips makes him chub up a little.

his girl’s eyes crinkle a little when she looks up toward the door. “john,” she says warmly, and before he’s even seated at his usual spot on the bar, she’s filling him up his favorite pint. “how are you doing, handsome? just got back from saving the world?”

a snarling, hungry, traitorous part of his brain tells him that his wife is being so good, keeping him fed and watered, and the only thing next on her wifely duties is to keep his balls drained. he tells it to go stuff itself.

“still working on it, sweetheart,” price says with a sip. maybe it was worth it, when she asked a while ago why he showed up so irregularly, to tell her that he was SAS, if only for the way she called it after. saving the world. that’d be nice.

this time, though, he notices something else that’s new besides the hairstyle, and it makes his beer taste like dust in his mouth. a glint in the light, on his girl’s left hand.

not really his girl anymore, is she?

price swallows down his mouthful and tries to quell the sudden heat that rises in his veins, a raging anger that feels, inexplicably, like he’s been stolen from. his molars clench together for dear life as he rearranges, tames, quiets himself. it was fine. it was fine! she’s just his bartender, is all. his friend. modern country and whatever, she could go meet whoever, get engaged to whoever, fuck whoever, and if she was happy, then—then price would have to be happy for her.

(she better be happy, he thinks. if whatever little boy she’s found isn’t making her feel like a bloody princess every god damn day then he doesn’t deserve the fingers he touches her with or the cock between his legs—)

this was good, even. with a ring on her finger, price’d always have a reminder that pretty girls didn’t owe him anything, don’t belong to him like a dog with a bone. kill the fantasy, keep his head on the missions. a better soldier. it’s that tightening thought that lets him calm himself enough to say “congratulations are in order, i assume?”

his gi—the—she furrows her brow in confusion, but she follows price’s gaze—how could she not, with him practically burning a hole in her finger with his stare—and laughs. “oh, that,” she says, easy as ever. “no, nothing’s happened.” she wiggles the ring off her finger and sliding it across the counter to price for his inspection.

under his touch, the tell is obvious: it’s plastic, cheap, almost gummy plastic. the faux diamond is cheap acrylic, only close to sparkling because she’s gone through and polished it up. it takes him a moment before he puts it together, but before he does, he briefly becomes so angry that he thinks he might actually kill a civilian for treating her this way.

“bought that online for five quid,” she keeps going. “just to stop some of the patrons from asking questions, or flirting, or, you know, trying to introduce me to their nephews and that kind of thing.”

a decoy ring. a dummy, a shield, something with no actual suitor attached to the other end. price is so relieved that he can feel every muscle in his aching body untense, and it pisses him off because he knows he shouldn’t care this much about his friend’s love life. “smart,” he says, his voice a bit thick before he clears it. “smart. though, you know, sweetheart, you could always try telling them you’re not interested.”

“please, john, you think i haven’t tried?” she shrugs. “no, most of them don’t listen without seeing a little proof that that seat is taken. always thought they could convince me otherwise. the ring shuts up most of them, and the few that still don’t get the hint, i end up having to tell them stories about ‘my husband’ before they piss off.”

the word husband coming from her mouth makes something rumble in price’s chest that’s becoming dangerously difficult to ignore. he tries a chuckle, tries to focus on the feeling of his beard bristling his own cheeks and not the way they would feel against hers, and tries to lighten the mood. “so, what, you just make up stories about this husband of yours? grand tales of romance?”

but she looks away, and—is his girl flustered? she picks up a rag in her hands and starts wiping idly at the counter, like she’s trying to avoid his eyes. “oh, you know,” she says. “i keep it simple. just enough to, er, get them to stop, and consistent, so they can’t pick holes. he’s—he’s in the military. leads a team.”

then, quietly, “he’s out there saving the world.”

the dog slips his leash.

when price finally leaves to make the long drive back to base, his shirt rumpled and his chin wet with slick, he keeps the plastic ring in his back pocket, not bothering to give it back. why would he? she doesn’t need it anymore, because he’s going to buy his girl the real diamonds that she deserves.